


Knowing Danger

by rei_c



Series: Knowledge 'Verse [8]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood, Felching, Incest, M/M, Rough Sex, Tattoos, Voodoo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-05-10
Updated: 2008-05-10
Packaged: 2020-09-02 09:38:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20273818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rei_c/pseuds/rei_c
Summary: Sam gives Dean his Christmas present a little early.





	Knowing Danger

They've been on the road with their father going on two months now. Progress is slow on the demon hunting -- just like they'd all known it would be -- and so they've been picking up a few random cases close to wherever the research takes them: Hurley, New Mexico; Lolo, Montana; Soddy-Daisy, Tennessee. John's giving them a lot of space and Dean's gotten in the habit of checking for two rooms at each motel they stop at for the night. Sam spends at least an hour every day on the phone and then spends a portion of every night with everything from a sock to Dean's shoulder in his mouth. Dean's not going without sex, after all, and Sam's such a loudmouth.

Danny is, too, and when she and Ogou are out to play, Dean honestly doesn't know how their father hasn't guessed at least a million times by now. If he has, he hasn't said anything. That's a relief because Dean has no idea how he would explain that one. Actually, Dean doesn't know how his father hasn't said anything about _him_. He doesn't have tattoos like Sam, doesn't answer his phone in anything but English, doesn't talk about vodou when John's around, and yet.

And yet sometimes Ogou's in his voice and the way he moves and the time he spends in bars. Ogou's in the way he hunts and the way he kills and the way his eyes glitter and gleam afterwards in the throes of success. Ogou's in everything and Dean finds that he doesn't even wish he could be more upset about that. Two months of space from all vodouisantes except Sam and the Petro _konfians kay_ of whichever city they're closest to, two months where Danny's the only loa Dean talks to besides Ogou, and Dean's come to some sort of peace. Yes, Sam was a bitch to ever unleash that _esprit_ on him, and yes, Ogou's a bastard to have ever invaded his mind without invitation, and yes, Karrefour is determined to drive Dean completely 'round the bend by not doing a thing, and yet.

And yet. Funny how Sam's the only person Dean can ever say that about. Somehow, Sam being Sam excuses everything.

_"Cause you in love, _cheval," Ogou tells him, two weeks before Christmas, holed up and riding out a freak snowstorm in the suburbs of Cincinnati. "_And there ain't no harm in that, now. Fact,_" Ogou adds, trailing off and filling Dean's mind with a mental picture that has Dean hard and aching.

He glances around the room, eyes taking in their weapons duffel, the bed, Sam on the floor sharpening knives with his cell phone held tight between ear and shoulder, then sighs. "_Now you're just being mean,_" he grumps at the loa, ever-present and coming to embody the kill-or-fuck mentality Dean's never wanted to admit having all those times Sam ragged on him about being a man of simple pleasures. That corner of his mind never had a distinct voice before but Ogou seems to have snatched it for his own, the damn loa.

Ogou laughs and Sam looks up, one eyebrow raised. Dean doesn't know if his brother's responding to the clearly audible sigh or the very inaudible laughter. "I have to go," Sam says, to whoever he's talking to, probably someone high up in the Cincinnati hierarchy, and then, after a moment, "Sure, just buckle down. We'll see you late tomorrow. G'night."

Dean smiles as his brother tosses the phone on the bed, licks his lips as Sam takes him in, head to toe. When Sam stands up, Dean thinks he knows where this is going; when Sam throws Dean his coat, Dean has no clue.

"Oh, come on," he pouts, spreading his legs a little wider, emphasising his crotch with as little subtlety as possible. "I thought we were in for the night." 

Sam rolls his eyes, shrugs on his own coat, and says, "I know it's early but you've been going stir-crazy for the past six states. I thought I'd give you your Christmas present tonight instead of making you wait any longer."

Dean's ears perk up. "Present? What present?" he asks, the thought of sex taking a backseat -- for now. "And why do we have to go outside?"

"Just shut up and drive," Sam retorts, throwing Dean the keys and stepping outside.

Dean picks up his coat, puts it on, and mutters, "I am never letting you and Kate talk, ever again. Rihanna, my ass."

"_Can't tell me the girl ain't pretty,_" Ogou says, piping up. "_Be nicer if she had some meat on them bones, but can't have eve'ything, that's what Danny says._"

Times like these, Dean wishes the loa would ride someone else so he could have the satisfaction of smacking Ogou just once.

\--

Sam tells their father that they're going out, will be back home before midnight, and John waves them off with a beer in one hand and the remote in the other. Dean slides into the Impala and turns her on; she purrs under his touch and doesn't complain once about how fucking cold it is. 

Dean flips the radio on and then shoves in a cassette when nothing else sounds good. Sam slides close and gives Dean directions until they're just outside the I-275 loop around the city. A few twists and turns and then Sam's telling Dean to park and jumping out of the car. Grumbling about little brothers, Dean does as directed and follows Sam, coming to a complete halt in front of a tattoo parlour.

Holy shit. Holy fucking _shit_.

He looks at Sam, who's trying unsuccessfully to hide a smirk, and looks away, coughs, tries to maintain his cool. "This it?" he asks, and doesn't let his voice break. The rasp, though, he can't hide that, just as he can't hide the heat, the mantra running through his mind of _wantnowneednow_, over and over, loud enough to drown out Ogou.

"I know it's nothing, y'know, tangible," Sam says, as if he's trying to make Dean think this is a good idea, as if it isn't the best idea in the history of ideas. Dean's only been thinking about it since he first mentioned it, back in New Orleans with Sam spread out under him, air in the room hot and wet, lazy kisses and downright _dirty_ fucking. "And if you'd rather wait."

"Hell no," Dean says, cutting Sam off. "Fuck no. I." He stops there, doesn't want to admit that he thought Sam had forgotten all about it, but Sam gets that weird look in his eyes that means he knows exactly what Dean's thinking. Sam steps forward, presses his lips to Dean's, and turns to enter the shop before Dean can react.

Left out in the cold, Dean rolls his eyes and follows Sam inside.

\--

It's bright and clean, warm almost to the point of too hot and sterile except for all of the photographs on the wall which are wild with colour. Dean's distracted by them but not so much that he misses the way Sam grins at the woman sitting behind the counter, watching with undisguised curiosity when the woman asks, "Back for more?"

Sam glances over his shoulder and Dean steps forward, knocks his shoulder into his brother's. "This is Dean," Sam says. "Dean, this is Janelle."

Dean reaches out a hand, shakes Janelle's, and sees her eyes flicking to his arms, neck, as if she's looking for tattoos on his skin. He grins, says, "Unmarked," and knows he's guessed right when she blushes.

She doesn't back down, though, just grins and says, "Hazard of the profession. Does that mean you're the one I'm working on tonight?"

"That'll be me, actually," Sam says. "I think I've got room for one more." He takes off his coat, strips his three layers of shirts off, too used to the heat now to have any fondness for cold.

Janelle whistles when she sees the vévés on Sam's forearms. He lifts both arms, rests his elbows on the counter and lets her trace the lines and curves with one finger. "Not too bad," she says, "but not up to your usual standards. And it looks like they never healed right." Dean straightens, hearing that, and narrows his eyes when her gaze floats over Sam's chest and she adds, "And I know the ones I did healed just fine then but they looked cracked now. You're taking care of them?"

Sam nods, steps back into the warmth Dean's emitting. The heat's on high in this place, but not high enough to walk around half-naked for very long. "Best I can," Sam replies, lifting one shoulder in a shrug. That's all he says and based on that, in combination with everything else, Dean gets that this Janelle, she might be a damn fine tattoo artist but she isn't one of them.

"So," she finally says, looking between them. "What's it gonna be tonight?"

Sam looks at Dean and Dean grins. "My name, on him."

Janelle's eyes flip immediately to Sam, and Dean's grin turns warm and silly, he knows, when Sam says, "His name, on me." Of course, then Sam adds, "Man has an ego the size of Alaska," and ruins the moment, but whatever, it's not like Dean hasn't spoiled a few of Sam's moments. She still seems hesitant, like this doesn't match up with what she knows of Sam, but Sam goes on to say, "Something small, we were thinking along my hipbone so it isn't clearly visible."

That seems like it relaxes her and Dean tries not to overreact at how well she knows his brother. "How small?" Janelle asks, and, then, "What font?" She's getting down to business, pulling out books, and takes out a permanent marker.

Sam nods towards the books, clear a direction as any Dean's been given tonight, and he's flipping through pages of letters before it catches up to him: Sam's getting a new tattoo tonight, one with _Dean's_ name, Dean's claim right there for everyone to see. The anxious humming he's had under his skin, the restlessness he's channeled into as much sex as Sam can handle, as much physical contact as John's allowed to see, as much teasing with Danny and sniping with Ogou, it's mellowed out now, just a little.

Dean wonders if it'll go away completely when he knows that even Sam's skin will say he's Dean's and almost jumps when Ogou says, thoughtful as ever, "_My _trezò_, he know you pretty damn well._"

He looks at Sam, talking to Janelle about colours and inks, and says, "_Yeah_."

\--

Dean picks a font, nothing fancy, going for basic and black and solid as opposed to Ati's curling lines and Danny's pink hearts, the white bones of Lakwa and the airy curves of the two vévés. Black is Dean's colour, the colour of his Impala and his favourite jacket, no matter how much Ogou's been trying to convince him to wear a little more red, and basic, solid, well. Dean's never been a complicated man, isn't today, even with the recent upheavals in his life.

Janelle leads them both back to a room screened from public sight and Sam undoes his jeans, lets them fall as he lies down and rolls the tops of his boxers low until Dean can see hair. He's on one side of Sam, Janelle on the other side, and he can't help the low growl when she takes her time looking at Sam's crotch.

She glances up, from Dean's possessive frown to Sam's casual acceptance of the same, then says to Dean, "I guess I won't be asking if Sam's changed his mind about a quick fuck." Dean clenches his teeth together so hard he can hear them clack. "Or if both of you are interested."

Before, Dean would've thought about it. She's not his type but she might be Sam's, and a threesome's never ended bad as far as he can tell. But now, after everything he and Sam have gone through, after all of the other people Dean's had to fight off, outwardly or not, to be Sam's only bed-partner, he's not going to invite some random chick from Ohio to sleep with them.

Dean's trying to decide how to respond with as diplomatic a 'fuck off' he can come up with, but Sam beats him to it, says, "There's a reason Dean's name is going so close to my dick, Jannie," and leaves it at that.

Janelle sighs, says something about the good ones always being taken, and washes her hands before sitting down and starting to trace out four letters across the sweep of Sam's hip, D-E-A-N. Dean thinks about telling her to add an apostrophe and an 's' for good measure, but mimes zipping his lips when Sam glances up at him, obviously following Dean's train of thought.

\-- 

Dean pulls over a chair, straddles it backwards and watches as Janelle finishes tracing out the letters to her satisfaction. She looks up, raised eyebrow, and after both Sam and Dean have nodded their approval, she wipes the area of the tattoo down, opens a package of sterile needles, sets the ink, and bends over Sam's hip with nothing but professional intensity.

Sam looks at Dean, settles back, and says, "Ready when you are." 

The noise makes Dean jump and he watches with fascination as his name takes shape.

He never got to see any of Sam's other tattoos being done; the first one was way before Dean came to get Sam from San Francisco and the two vévés were inked overnight while Dean was exchanging life stories with Kate. Seeing it now, from start to finish, it's. Maybe it's just because it's his name, but Dean really has no words. Ogou has a few, but Dean ignores the loa and looks at his brother. Sam's got his eyes closed, looking for all the world like he's sleeping through someone sticking needles in to him.

Sometimes, Dean just doesn't understand his brother.

\--

It takes an hour. Janelle's a perfectionist and wants to make sure every little corner is perfectly filled in. If Dean was absolutely _sure_ she wasn't just using this as an excuse to stare at Sam's dick, he'd be all right with that. As it stands, he's relieved when she pushes back, stands up and heads for the sink and the sharps disposal.

"Hey," Dean says, punching Sam on the shoulder, pulling Sam upright. "Wake up, you lazy-assed bastard and get out of the chair." He's had time to think about it, so when he adds, "It's my turn," he grins at the look Sam's wearing.

Janelle turns to face them, glances between them, and asks, "More letters?"

Sam's wide eyes gain an ally in an open mouth when Dean replies, "Nah," and pulls off his shirt. "Sam can trace the symbol on. At least, I hope he can. If not, I'll have to try it upside down."

With obvious effort, Sam closes his mouth, breathes in through his nose, and says, "Let me guess. Ogou? And why?"

"Maybe I'm feeling left out," Dean says. Sam just raises an eyebrow, so Dean says, reaches out with both hands. Sam takes them and Dean pulls his brother close to say, quiet, "Look, I know what you are to us, okay? And I know that if I'm not, y'know, in your general vicinity, things don't work the same. So this is me making sure it doesn't matter if I'm on one side of the country and you're on the other. Not that I'm suggesting _that's_ a good idea," he hastens to add. "Just. Besides, it can't hurt to advertise the connection, right? Penny and the others, the ones who were there, they get it, but there are a whole hell of a lot more of you, of _us_, than I ever guessed before."

Janelle's watching them, probably trying to decipher what Dean's just said. Sam doesn't spare one glance at her, though, just steps closer to Dean, close enough to kiss, and asks, "Dad?"

Dean shrugs. "If he doesn't already know or hasn't guessed close enough to the truth, I'll sell the car for scrap. I don't care, okay? Can I. Will you let me do this?"

Sam holds his gaze, then says, without looking away, "Jannie, I'm gonna need that marker."

\-- 

Sam draws the vévé from memory, the patchwork pattern, the curves and crosses and stars. He draws it small, right over Dean's sternum after Dean had muttered something about Ogou not giving him heart attacks. Sam had smiled at that and Dean had flushed, looked away, because he knows he loves Sam but saying it without having fucked Sam brainless first, well, he hates chick-flick moments.

The marker tickles a little and Dean thinks back to San Francisco, watching Sam draw on himself in that apartment's bathroom, saying something about territories that Dean hadn't understood then but gets now, all too well. He's caught off-guard when Sam finishes, stuck in thoughts about everything he and Sam have gone through this year, and before Sam can move too far away, Dean reaches up, takes Sam's face in his hands, pulls Sam down and kisses him hard, possessively.

When he lets go, Sam's grinning, has swollen lips, and Janelle's trying far too hard to stay objective. "Ready?" she asks, and her voice sounds more off-balance than Dean's when he replies.

"Yeah."

Sam's eyes are dark and hot, loa swirling and careening up against one another, when the needles sink in to Dean's skin for the first time.

\--

They get back to the motel just before midnight, knock on their father's door to let him know they're back, then go into their room. The second both of them are inside, Dean slams Sam up against the door, kisses him and ruts against him until Sam's nails are leaving marks down Dean's back and Dean's hands are fisting tight in Sam's hair. 

"Not that I'm complaining," Sam pants when Dean starts biting Sam's neck, all that skin, long column and so _delicate_, begging to be marked, "but dude, what the hell?"

Dean bends enough to get hold of the skin where shoulder meets neck and _bites_. The tang of blood fills Dean's mouth, scents the air, and Sam's suddenly limp and pliant under Dean's wandering hands. Dean looks up, worried, and can't help the relieved smirk when he sees the flush on Sam's cheekbones, the way Sam's leaning his head back against the door, smile on his lips, eyes closed.

"Could've at least warned me," Dean mutters, getting Sam out of his coat, the top layer of shirts, fumbling with the button on Sam's jeans. "Fuck, I don't think I've ever been so turned on in my life."

"Really?" Sam asks, and something in his tone beyond the laughing makes Dean pause. He looks at Sam again, almost swallows his tongue when he sees the look in Sam's eyes now, open and bottomless, filled with some wickedly dangerous amusement. It's almost like there's a loa there, close to the surface and ready to come out, but it's been since Dennis; Dean has to be imagining things. "Never, not once? I think I should be jealous, Dean, if needles get you hotter than I do."

Dean licks his lips, resists the urge to take a step back because this is _Sam_ and Dean's name is buried under those layers of clothes, scabbing over and permanently marked on his brother. "Well," he says, mouth dry. "Maybe I wasn't exactly thinking when I said that. But it _was_ damn hot. And I _am_ ready to fuck. Are you?"

Sam laughs, that hot amusement again, and Dean gets goosebumps head to toe when Sam blinks. It isn't Sam, opening his eyes and pinning a gaze full of promise on Dean.

"Karrefour?" Dean asks, voice barely louder than a whisper. Two months and Karrefour hasn't said a word, hasn't looked out of Sam's eyes once, and now, all of a sudden, the loa's just, what, just here, like that?

Dean doesn't know why, doesn't understand until the loa cocks his head and drawls out, "Heya, boy. Promised you somethin', I did, when the time was better. _Poto mitan_ seems to think that time's now." Karrefour pauses, then grins, bearing his teeth. Dean blinks, thinking he saw blood on Karrefour's teeth, but that's ridiculous because he's been with Sam for hours now and _he's_ the one who just bit a chunk out of Sam's neck, not the other way 'round. "_Poto mitan_ getting a kick out of this, boy. Too many presents; you gonna send me a thank-you card, dress it up with some o' Ogou's rum?"

Ogou's growling good-naturedly at the loa; Dean already knows that the two get along, that they've gone hunting together in Sam's body before, but he isn't ready for Ogou's muttered threatening. "_Love to take that damned loa and aim to use him for prey if I didn't think he'd get me in the end._"

"Dude," Dean says, just shocked enough to forget that Sam -- and Karrefour -- can hear him when he talks out loud to his rider. He sees Karrefour's mocking smile, literally can't hold on to Sam's clothes tight enough to keep Karrefour from slip-sliding out of his grasp like water. He turns, watches the loa stalk around the duffels on the floor, snorting dismissively at the weapons, and asks Ogou, "_The fuck do you mean, if you didn't think he'd get you in the end? You're the hunter, here._"

"_I got respect, _cheval," Ogou retorts, almost immediately. "_And 'til you tangle with him, take my word for it. That loa ain't nothing but trouble_."

Karrefour turns at that, tilts his head to one side and tries to look harmless. It would work, Dean thinks, if his heart wasn't hammering in his chest, if his mouth wasn't so dry and his muscles weren't so tense. Ogou's warning has him seriously freaked. Back in New Orleans, Dean had the thought that Karrefour knows how to use Sam's body to its limits, blood and violence and pain, curses and black magic; now that he's seen Karrefour kill, now that he knows more about the loa, he's cautious and wary. And, as he adjusts his stance, better balancing his weight, his dick is hard as a fucking rock.

"I think I'm hurt," Karrefour drawls, somehow taking Sam's voice and turning it muggy, hot and wet, echoes of the wetlands and thick coffee in every word. Dean swallows and tries to ignore the pressing need for sex; Karrefour's voice is not at all natural. "My own cousin, callin' me trouble. Should I take offense, Ogou?"

Dean doesn't see any sign of hurt on Karrefour's face so he knows that the loa's just teasing. Well. He's pretty sure the loa's just teasing. "No offense intended," Dean finally says, when it's clear that Ogou isn't about to say anything.

Karrefour smiles again, licks his teeth. "That you talking, boy, or your _met tet_?"

"_S'between you and him, _cheval," Ogou says. "_I don't want no part of whatever you about to do._"

"I didn't know you could hear private communication," Dean says, after making sure the gateway between him and Ogou is very securely locked on his end. He can still feel Ogou, but there's no way the loa can do anything but feel Dean's presence in return, sitting in the same spot where the block had resided, months ago. There's no way Dean can draw on Ogou's cockiness, though, and Dean finds himself regretting that as he says, stumbling over his words. "You. You can, what, you can read minds?"

Karrefour sits down on one of the chairs, spreads his legs and studies Dean through Sam's long eyelashes, raggedy bangs. It's a dark and knowing look, one that promises blood, full of an animal awareness that Dean wasn't sure, even after everything he's seen his brother do, that Sam was capable of. Karrefour's a loa of the night, though, and there are some things that happen in the darkness for a good reason. Dean would do well to remember that and he doesn't need Ogou to remind him to step lightly around Karrefour.

"Black magic Petro, boy," Karrefour says.

"Don't call me boy," Dean snaps back, instantly.

He holds himself as loose as possible, ready for anything, but can't help the flush when Karrefour just laughs. "Have to earn my respect, _boy_," Karrefour says, grinning, and, yes, there's definitely blood on his teeth. Where it came from, Dean doesn't know, not until Karrefour raises an eyebrow and the loa's eyes drop to Dean's arm. He can feel it, then, a sudden ache, and he pushes up the sleeve of his Henley to see half-crescent marks in the meat of his arm, welling with blood.

They're new and fresh, Dean has no clue how he got them, but then he sees Karrefour's laughing amusement, and thinks back. "In the house on Dauphine," he says, slowly. "You did this then and it bled. How can you do it _now_ without even touching me?"

"Black magic Petro," Karrefour says, repeating himself, watching Dean as if Dean's a fascinating specimen. Either that or like he's about to break Dean into little tiny pieces in order to see how he works. It isn't malevolent, not yet, but there's something inherently unnerving and _wrong_ about the way that Karrefour is watching him. 

Dean doesn't fidget but it's close, and as he steps to one side, eyes fixed on Karrefour, he suddenly gets it. He's prey. Karrefour might just be sitting there, watching, but he's also working some kind of magic, is focused on Dean like a snake might be focused on a rat. One wrong move, or finding the game suddenly boring, and Karrefour might lunge with open jaws.

"There a lot of things you don't know 'bout me and the dwarf," Karrefour goes on. Dean thinks it's recrimination until he looks at the loa and sees that Karrefour's merely stating a fact. 

"So why don't you tell me?" Dean drawls, folding his arms over his chest. "Or do you and Sam have that much in common, huh? Keeping all these secrets from me, is that something you two keep score on? Who's winning?"

Dean thinks he's scored a hit when the smile drops off of Karrefour's face, isn't so sure when he sees how utterly _black_ Sam's eyes get. The green's darkened so much, Sam's irises match the colour of his pupils, a deep, bottomless, empty pit. Dean gets shivers, has to fight harder not to step backwards, that or let out with a _Christo_.

Karrefour's lips curve. "Ayah," he murmurs, silky and sly. "You ain't the first. Too many others call me demon. Will you?" Sorely tempted, Dean shakes his head, just once. The loa laughs, a noise that sends shivers down Dean's spine. He never knew that sound, that inflection, could come from his brother. Now, Dean gets how utterly _dangerous_ this loa is in a way he never has before. For the first time, Dean's starting to wonder why Sam picked Karrefour as part of his trinity, knows it couldn't simply have been the convenience of being ridden by a loa of the crossroads. "What you thinking, boy?"

"You can't tell?" Dean asks, mouth moving before his mind can stop him. His eyes go wide when he realises what he's just done, throwing down the gauntlet like that, and he flinches -- though holds his ground -- when Karrefour flows upwards in one smooth motion before prowling across the motel room to stand right in front of Dean.

Karrefour's fingers tap lightly down Dean's chest, soft as air, and then go up to the bandage over Dean's new tattoo. Karrefour pauses, fingers resting lightly above the bandage, then traces the outlines of Ogou's vévé through shirt and bandage. "You thinking 'bout your brother," the loa says. "Seems to me, you always thinking 'bout him. The pair of you, such a tight unit, no room for anyone else. Ever consider that might be a problem, boy? Ever think you making trouble acting that way?"

Dean frowns, glares at Karrefour. "Fuck no," he replies stubbornly. "Sam's mine, I'm his, the end. That's all either of us will ever need."

"But what 'bout what you want?" Karrefour asks, those fingers that Dean had dismissed digging in, now, through the shirt. They press down on the bandage over Dean's new tattoo and he can't help hissing. A smile flickers across Karrefour's lips. "What 'bout what the _poto mitan_ wants? There's a difference 'tween wants and needs."

Caught on the edge of an instant denial, Dean pauses. Karrefour shares Sam's mind all the time; it's not inconceivable that the loa knows something Dean doesn't. With Karrefour waiting, Dean weighs his options carefully, then grins and shrugs. "If there was something Sam wanted, he'd tell me. He does enough as it is," Dean can't help adding.

Karrefour smiles and bends forward, to Dean's right side. Dean thinks that the loa's going to whisper something to him, is surprised when Karrefour takes Dean's earlobe in his mouth, sucks, then bites. Surprised but not taken aback -- the loa did the same thing in New Orleans, like it's some kind of mark, some kind of claiming. Nothing would really surprise Dean at this point, not from Karrefour. 

He lifts his arms, is moving with an instinct that tells him to wrap them around Sam, tangle his hands in Sam's hair and pull his brother in for a kiss, but this is Karrefour and not Sam, so he jerks, off-balance, when Karrefour pushes him backwards. Dean stumbles, let's out a "What the _fuck_?" and can't find his feet when Karrefour keeps pushing.

Dean's back hits the door with a solid thump, his knee twisting slightly out of place, and Dean grimaces in pain. "Kiss you or kick you, that what you told the _poto mitan_?" Karrefour asks. The loa lifts a hand, strokes Dean's face, and Dean holds his breath, unsure which way the loa's mood is pointing, whether the touch will stay soft and restrained or turn into nails and blood. "You like not knowing, boy? You like uncertainty? Going with your blood and tryin' to stay afloat no matter where the current take you?"

"No," Dean says. He shakes his head for good measure.

Karrefour laughs, raises an eyebrow, and asks, "Then why you a hunter, heya? Ain't never met a hunter who ain't liked the thrill of never knowing a night's outcome."

Dean frowns, replies, "Hope for the best and plan for the worst. That's what the smart hunters do."

"Y'ain't a smart one," Karrefour murmurs before leaning forward, sniffing Dean's neck. His tongue darts out, tastes the exact placement of the scabs Dean wore for a week after New Orleans, put there by Sam's teeth in St. Louis. "Not if you been aching for me. Or is it just that you wanna be fucked, hm? Pushed down, opened up, know what it feel like to writhe beneath someone else?"

Karrefour's teeth graze the pulse point hammering in Dean's neck and Dean can't help groaning, closing his eyes. That mental image, it has his dick reminding him that he's been waiting for this, waiting for Karrefour to make good on the promise he made the last time he took over Sam's body.

Dean manages to open his eyes, sees Karrefour grinning at him, teeth shining. "You've given me two months, you crazy loa," he says, eyes fixed on Karrefour's lips. "Two months to think about it. And now you're here, you think I'm just gonna let you get away with _that_?" He lifts up his hands, bunches them in Karrefour's shirt, pulls the loa close until their bodies are aligned, chest to groin to knees. Dean shifts and Karrefour settles easily with one of Dean's legs separating his, leaning his weight on Dean and pinning Dean even harder against the door. "You," he growls, "are going to fuck me. And if you don't like that plan, get the hell out of my brother so that I can fuck _him_." 

"Aw, chile," Karrefour murmurs, voice smoky, bringing to mind smoky back corners of badly-lit bars. "Gonna make me blush."

He leans forward and takes Dean's mouth, pulling away only when Dean's panting and bloody. Dean reaches up, touches his mouth, winces at the bites and rips, the sting as he wipes his tongue across them and feels the slices on his tongue catch on his teeth. He looks at the loa, sees that Karrefour has a smear of blood next to his mouth, and leans forward just enough to lick the taste of his own blood off of Karrefour's skin.

When he leans back, lets his head thunk against the door, he knows what kind of picture he's presenting to Karrefour. The loa doesn't react, though, just smiles and steps back. Dean straightens, as if to follow, to bring the loa back, and Karrefour's smile turns triumphant. Dean rolls his eyes, says, voice unsteady even as his gaze isn't, "You win the mind games, okay? God knows you've had enough time to practice and Sam's always been good at that, too. Okay? You win. Now, 're we fucking? Or have you got more games to play first?"

"Think maybe it'd be worth it to make you wait," Karrefour murmurs, expression honestly thoughtful for the first time all night. Dean's jaw drops. "But," he goes on, slowly, "If I ain't gonna get nothing else out of this, might as well make it worth my while." A slow smile curves across his mouth.

Dean doesn't know if he should be relieved or terrified. Worth Karrefour's while? The fuck does that even mean?

\--

He finds out quickly. Karrefour licks his lips, sees very well that Dean's eyes are tracking the movement of Karrefour's tongue, then moves forward, fast, and knees Dean in the stomach. As Dean's bending over, more out of surprise than pain -- though the loa's certainly not pulling punches -- he can see Karrefour's head dip, eyes dark and amused, heavy with heat, lips bent up in a smile. Kiss him or kick him. Right.

Dean gets it, so when Karrefour's fist swings in his direction, he ducks, blocks the punch, and delivers his own punch. Karrefour's a black magic loa but he doesn't use magic to hide behind. Dean's aim strikes true and Karrefour's holding a bloody nose a minute later. Karrefour grins, wipes off the excess blood with one finger and sucks at it. Dean's loose, ready for anything, and he blinks as Karrefour pulls his shirt off. The loa tilts his head and Dean gets the idea; he takes his own shirt off, takes his belt off, and it's _on_.

Blood pumping and heart racing, the two engage in a knock-down fist-fight. It's dirty, fast, and blood's getting everywhere. Karrefour's nose has to be broken and there's a decent cut on his shoulder from a swipe of Dean's ring. He's going to be covered in bruises by this time tomorrow, but Dean's not doing any better. Besides the really annoying ache of his new tattoo and the sting from where Karrefour pulled the bandage off, Dean's bruised and bloody, though most of the blood probably came from Karrefour. Judging by the way his chest is aching, Dean's got at least a bruised rib from his second meeting with the floor as well, which is the worst of his injuries.

The next time he rushes Karrefour, the loa sidesteps and uses Dean's own momentum to thump Dean on the back, have Dean land face-first on to the bed. Dean's about to push himself up and off when the loa bends over him, whispers, "Ain't gonna tolerate you movin', boy," before biting down the length of Dean's back, nails digging in alongside teeth.

Dean groans, humps the bed once before Karrefour smacks him on the ass, open palm. Dean might still be wearing jeans but it hurts and he can't help cussing. "Son of a fucking bitch!"

"Said, no movin'," Karrefour growls. Dean freezes, then snarls back, still high on adrenaline, muscles still poised for fight. He turns, flips, and ignores the pain in his chest as he pushes Karrefour away. Karrefour stumbles backwards but doesn't go down; Dean bares his teeth in challenge. The loa grins, eyes glinting like some wild animal in the night. "Well, how 'bout that," he murmurs, before stepping back and holding his arms out wide. "You want it, you gonna have to take it, boy."

Dean's eyes scan Karrefour's chest, note the way the tattoos writhe with every pant Karrefour makes for air, the edges of the bandage peeking out from under the jeans' waistband. He thinks about showing Karrefour his belly, metaphorically speaking, but his eyes gleam with challenge. Ogou's his rider and Dean's _never_ surrendered before; just because Karrefour's bigger, stronger, magic, doesn't mean Dean's going to start now. He grins, wide, knowing that his teeth are just as bright as Karrefour's, just as sharp. The loa's smile deepens and Dean can taste the tang of electricity flowing off of Karrefour's body, taste it and lets it soak inside of him, setting his bones to humming, matching the wild rhythm of his heart.

\--

If the fighting before was dirty, this is vicious. Anything goes, Dean learns when Karrefour flicks a burst of power in his direction. Dean ducks, lets that one go flying over his head, and bats the next one away with a pillow. Both bursts of black magic ricochet against different walls, setting off large showers of sparks. Dean doesn't want to know what they would have done to him if they'd made contact. He's not about to find out.

In between Karrefour using magic, the loa's throwing punches, letting loose with some roundhouse kicks. Most don't connect, Dean clearly on the defensive, but some do, and Dean reels backwards after Karrefour's foot connects with his shoulder and his joint lets out a sharp popping sound.

"Had enough, boy?" Karrefour asks, wiping fresh blood off the skin just below his nose. His curls are sticking to his skin, tips wet and body covered in a sheen of sweat.

"Never," Dean replies, low, after popping his shoulder back in place. Entire body aching, Dean goes on the offensive, kicking and punching, mindless of anything but the fight, the challenge. Everything he's ever learned, it's enough to hold Karrefour off, and the thrill of knowing that, the absolute joy that's running through his veins with every second they're kicking the shit out of each other, it's almost addictive. Dean feels _alive_ in a way that he's never felt before without Sam.

Karrefour leaves a hole open and Dean darts in to take advantage of that. Karrefour ends up with a bruise over his cheekbone at the very least, maybe even a broken bone, but he also expected Dean to do what he did. Before Dean can clear Karrefour's reach, the loa kicks out and swipes Dean off his feet

Dean goes down hard, lets out an "Ooph," before he can help it, and can't scurry out of the way before Karrefour's straddling him, hands around his throat.

"Give," Karrefour orders. The loa's thumbs are crushing down on Dean's throat, there's no way he can talk, so he spits, instead, and glares as he watches a clump of saliva trail down Karrefour's cheek. "Good," Karrefour says, tone of voice making Dean fight the hold even more. He can't get anywhere, though, so when Karrefour bends down, presses his lips to Dean's, Dean bites, snapping his teeth.

Karrefour laughs and that just makes Dean furious. The next time Karrefour kisses him, Dean gives as he good he gets, biting back, forcing his tongue into Karrefour's mouth, surging up against Karrefour as much as he can. Karrefour forces him back down, takes Dean's wrists and pins them to the floor, says, "Keep 'em there." The second Karrefour loosens his hold, Dean moves his arms; instantly they're back on the floor, wrists screaming in protest as the loa's grip turns painful. "Not gonna be able to get these jeans off o' you," Karrefour warns, before moving his face, taking hold of Dean's left nipple and chomping down.

Dean howls, can't not, but he whines high in his throat when the teeth turn teasing, tongue flicking out, Karrefour's breath warm and hot. Karrefour's mouth travels south, biting and licking his way across Dean's chest, paying special attention to the red-hot lines of the scabbing tattoo over Dean's sternum. Dean arches, pants, and tries to get away; instead, he ends up harder than ever, dick aching from being trapped inside his jeans. 

His hands and arms have carpet burn from where Karrefour's still holding onto them, pressing them tight to the floor and dragging them as Karrefour's mouth hits Dean's navel. Karrefour's tongue dips in, swirls, disappears only so that Karrefour's teeth can tug on the hair leading down from Dean's belly-button.

This time, when Dean fights for his wrists' freedom, Karrefour lets him have it, looks up with narrowed eyes as if asking what Dean's going to do next. His heart's still pounding, his whole body's aching, and Karrefour's mouth is _so_ close to his cock. Dean doesn't waste time with words, just locks eyes with Karrefour and reaches down to undo the button on his jeans. Karrefour's lips curve, dangerous and full of promise. Dean finds himself echoing the expression.

\--

Karrefour practically rips Dean's jeans off of him; they won't be wearable again. They roll on the floor, bump into things, and Karrefour snarls when Dean's hands reach for the loa's jeans. So, instead, Dean scratches his nails down the loa's back, long enough to stretch from shoulder-blade to ass, deep enough that they'll take a while to heal. Karrefour digs his fingers into Dean's hips, pressing hard enough to leave bruises. Kisses are rough, punishing more than sensual, until they both have swollen and ragged lips, bruises and hickeys sharing space on shoulders, necks, faces.

Every time that Dean starts to edge into something the loa takes as disagreement, Karrefour wraps his hand around Dean's cock and jerks, hard, tight, slow. It drives Dean crazy, more and more every time it happens, and eventually he pushes Karrefour on the chest. The loa tips off and Dean pounces on to Karrefour, wrangles with his jeans and yanks them off with little ceremony, material taking the bandage off in the same movement.

Dean knows Karrefour needs them off to fuck him, thinks the loa finds Dean's desperation more humorous than insubordinate if Karrefour's laughing can be taken as a sign. It might have something to do with the way Dean's panting, cock leaking pre-come, mind and body wanting blood or come, whichever looks like it might arrive faster. Dean doesn't care. If they don't get to the fucking soon, he's going to kill something, some_one_.

As soon as they're both naked, Karrefour rolls, takes Dean's balance away. Dean falls to the side, head thunking on the floor, and while he's still waiting for his ears to stop ringing, the loa pushes Dean to his stomach, drapes his weight over Dean's back. "Gonna move now?" Karrefour asks before biting at Dean's neck, sucking at the skin caught between his teeth.

"Only if you don't fuck me," Dean hisses. "'Cause I'm beginning to think you don't want to do this." Karrefour digs his nails into the meat of Dean's ass, drawing blood. Sitting down is going to be a bitch for a while; Dean starts to think that doing much of _anything_ is going to be uncomfortable before Karrefour pushes his knees forward and pulls his hips back. The loa doesn't have any regard for the fact that they're on the floor, that he's just drawn blood on Dean's knees and palms from the friction.

"Got a mouth on you, boy," Karrefour murmurs, sliding one finger inside of Dean, slick with sweat, with blood, with spit, but not much else. It stings, pulls, is one more ache on top of everything else, but this one feels _good_. "Think I oughta do something 'bout that." Dean kicks backwards, connects with Karrefour's gut, hears the loa grunt. "Point taken," Karrefour chuckles, and the next time he bites down, he scissors two fingers inside Dean's ass, stretching fast, too dry.

Dean hangs his head, pants, tastes blood from the last time they were face to face. When Karrefour's fingers are on their out-stroke, he scrambles forward, away from the loa, almost loses his balance, and comes up swinging. The loa's right there, though, growling, blocking Dean's punches with an arm already littered with nicks and scrapes.

The two circle each other, Dean trying to catch his breath, Karrefour looking intent and focused. Dean trips over the remnants of his jeans, too busy watching Karrefour to watch the ground, but the loa doesn't take advantage of Dean's distraction, just keeps watching. It's unnerving, almost, or would be if Dean wasn't so used to seeing that look from Sam.

Danny, sure, Dean gets that; she fits Sam because they can both look harmless on first glance, can present themselves that way, fool people well enough to get in close before they go for the throat. He's never known why Karrefour fits, not until this moment. Karrefour watches. Karrefour watches, plots, plans, and will do whatever he wants to do or has to do in the safety of full darkness. He'll deal in evil if it suits him, kill if his mood changes, and hold truck with demons, maybe, even. Karrefour likes blood, likes heat and passion, won't let anyone constrain him. Karrefour does whatever the hell he likes, regardless of every other loa or vodouisante.

Yeah, Karrefour fits Sam. The question is, does Karrefour fit with Dean?

Karrefour watches and when Dean makes a move, Karrefour sees it. The two meet in the middle of their makeshift circle, scrabble for purchase, wrestle each other to the ground. Dean rolls, Karrefour rides the movement, and a moment later, Dean's lying flat on his stomach again, Karrefour pressing his face to the carpet and fucking into him with no warning at all.

It hurts, yes, God, of course it hurts, but _everything_ hurts and this has a hint of pleasure attached to it, a hint of pleasure with the promise of more. Dean pushes back, impatient; Karrefour swipes his fingers across open cuts on Dean's hips and Dean howls as the sting flushes through his system concurrent with the flush of adrenaline as Karrefour buries himself inside of Dean.

\--

They fuck like they fight: blood and pain and furious enjoyment. Dean never stops fighting, never just lays down and takes it, and Karrefour laughs, forces Dean to give everything Karrefour wants. Dean comes, clawing at the carpet, breaking his nails like tissue paper; Karrefour comes with a muttered word in Creole.

Karrefour holds him down after that, one huge palm spread across the small of Dean's back, and licks his own come out of Dean's ass. Dean's exhausted, worn out, but Karrefour isn't satiated. He gives Dean enough time to get his breathing back to normal and his vision to stop fuzzing, then drags Dean to the bed, throws him on it, and takes him again. This time, Dean's on his back and has one leg slung over Karrefour's shoulder; the loa watches him.

Dean writhes and pants and snarls wordless demands for more, focus split between the feeling of Karrefour's dick in his ass and the sight of Karrefour's eyes, black and never-ending, pinned on his. It's overwhelming, the most intense experience of his life, but he doesn't beg. He doesn't beg, doesn't plead, never says anything that might be construed as giving in. He doesn't have to. No one else would understand, Dean thinks, except the loa fucking him close to an inch near his death. Or Sam. Sam would understand.

"Now you getting it," Karrefour murmurs, as Dean throws his head back and curves his back, trying to get Karrefour deeper inside. "Heya, now you getting it."

\--

Dean comes again, cock protesting, every muscle in his body close to snapping with the tension. Karrefour laughs, pulls out and fists his dick a couple times. Come spurts out, lands on Dean's new tattoo, and Karrefour leans forward when he's done, tells Dean, "Might be the _kochon_'s _cheval_, but you belong to the _poto mitan_, too. He got your mark on him for ev'ryone to see. You gonna have his mark on you?"

"Don't need to," Dean says, wondering if Karrefour's going to try for another round of either fighting or fucking. Dean's too wiped out to be much of a challenge at this point, but he'll be damned before he rolls over and plays bitch for the loa. "Think it's pretty obvious who I listen to. Just wanted to make sure everyone knows who Sam ends up with at the end of the day."

Karrefour grins at him, licks his teeth, and rolls off of Dean's legs, stands up and stretches, yawns.

\--

"Can't believe no one heard that," Dean says, once he's gathered enough voice to say anything. He stops, plays that over again in his head, and groans. "Aw, _fuck_. There's no _way_ Dad didn't hear any of that."

"Black magic Petro," Karrefour replies, amused as he was before they tangled and fucked. "You think I wanted anyone else to listen in? You gotta think more, boy."

Dean groans, covers his eyes with one hand. "Please, for the love of everything you hold holy, don't call me _boy_. Not after we just did." He trails off, waves his hand around the room without even looking. He hates to think what kind of condition it ended up in.

Karrefour doesn't say anything and Dean's content to lie there in the silence, until the mattress shifts. Karrefour's sitting next to him, sweeps a hand up Dean's legs, and then Dean feels teeth around his nipple. He tenses, unsure what to expect, but doesn't otherwise move, doesn't open his mouth to ask questions. Instead of the bite he expected, Karrefour licks, then blows. Dean shivers and the loa laughs. 

"Very well," Karrefour says, in a low and rumbling voice. Dean turns his head, fixes his eyes on Karrefour. "Y'ain't a boy; _poto mitan_ was right 'nough 'bout that. Very well, Dean Winchester. Danny-girl call you her _masisi_, Ogou call you his _cheval_. As for the _poto mitan_, he said you be his _solèy_. Me and mine have a word for people like you, Dean. We call 'em _mato_. So that's what you be, now." Karrefour shifts until his face is right above Dean's. "_Mato_, not boy. That make you feel better?"

"Feel better if I knew what that meant," Dean grouses. "For all I know, it might mean 'baby,' which is a step backward from where I'm at."

Karrefour grins, opens his mouth and gently bites the tip of Dean's nose. When the teeth leave, the loa does, too, and it's Sam looking at him, hesitant, tentative, blinking wide, green eyes. "Are you," he starts to say. 

Dean knocks Sam off-balance, half lies on top of his brother, and says, "Dude. I have no idea what to get you for Christmas. Nothing can _possibly_ top that." 

Sam grins, says, "I know. Karrefour's such an alpha," and starts laughing.

Dean joins him a moment later, sliding off, lying next to his brother. He shifts, repositions himself, and places his palm over the newest tattoo on Sam's body. Sam turns his head, gives Dean one of those small, soppy smiles that _only_ Dean gets, then closes his eyes.

"Merry early Christmas," Sam murmurs. "I hope it was worth it."

"Oh, it was," Dean says. He sees Sam smile, pulls Sam closer when Sam snuggles in, and then, after he's sure Sam's asleep, Dean kisses his brother's forehead and whispers back, "And Merry Christmas to you, Sammy."

\--

A knock on the door wakes Dean up in the morning. He moves to grab underwear and a gun, pulls boxers on while making sure the gun's loaded, and answers the door cautiously, blinking in the sudden light. The guy standing outside is no one he recognises.

"Ayizan, Dean Winchester," the guy says. "Good to meet you."

Dean has no idea who this guy is but thinks he can hear something like trees and wind echoing in the guy's voice, so he guesses vodouisante and raises an eyebrow. The man holds out a hand and Dean studies the unlabelled jar before looking back up, question written in his expression.

"Loko sends his regards and something for the," the guy says, before stopping abruptly, clearly trying to find a word to delicately refer to all of Dean's scrapes, bruises, bumps, burns. "For both you and the _poto mitan_; we know that Ti-Jean could heal you both but he's done enough for one night. Please, take it. Our gift to you."

Dean does, watches as the guy seems relieved, returns the nod when the guy turns and leaves. Dean frowns, shakes his head, and closes, locks the door. He makes to head for the bed to ask Sam what that was all about but stops, startled.

The entire room, it looks fine. There's no sign of anything that happened last night. Dean's about to ask but then he gets it. Ti-Jean, stupid black magic Petro, done enough for one night, shit.

Sam cracks one eyelid open and pats the empty space on the bed. "Come back?" he asks.

Dean can't think of a good reason not to. He shrugs, leaves the jar on the nightstand, and pulls Sam close, breathes in the smell of his brother. Sam hums sleepily, twines his legs in with Dean's, and asks, voice rough, husky, "He called you _mato_."

"What does that mean?" Dean asks. "The charm's not doing a thing to translate it."

Sam smiles against Dean's shoulder and says, "It means he thinks you're okay. Better than okay."

Not an answer. Then again, Dean hadn't been expecting a real one, not this quickly. He sighs, mutters something even he doesn't understand, and follows Sam back into sleep.


End file.
